Blame it on Cabo
by peachyfuzzykeen
Summary: Bella hopes to get rid of her Forks baggage in Cabo, Mexico. Will it drift away or come back home with her?
1. Running On Empty

**A/N:**

** This is the continuation for Blame it on Cabo. ****The oneshot's available on my profile.**

**You may notice how similar it is to the oneshot.**

**That's because it's the original first half. **

**But you haven't been gypped!**

**The next half is extended, I think you can guess why ;)**

**So technically it's half new.**

**I still suck at A/N**

**I'll just thank Bigblueboat and afmtoo for being my first betas **

**SM Owns**

* * *

"Nobody told me paradise could be so muggy," I complain internally as I turn slightly, reaching towards my drink, hoping to get some relief from the iced alcoholic goodness.

After fighting to get the straw in my mouth, while surreptitiously scoping out any possible audience to this idiocy, I manage to finally take a sip…only to hear that heartbreaking slurping sound of an empty glass. I keep viciously sucking in denial, hoping that with determination that I can magically get a refill without having to remove my ass from this beach chair.

To my _crushing_ devastation, I get nothing but more mocking slurping sounds issuing from the bottom of my tall pink glass. Even the damn ice has melted in this heat. And to be honest, when the chips are down and your drink is empty, the little umbrella sticking out is neither as cute nor cheerful as it once was when you first saw it sticking out of a freshly-made chilly Malibu.

I glare resentfully at the depressingly-empty glass and plant it back into the sand next to me, out of sight. It's a safer alternative to what I want to do, which is pitch the godforsaken thing towards the ocean, where it can sail into oblivion, tropical mini umbrella and all. But, of course, with my precision, or lack thereof, the only result of me tossing the damn thing would be a new black eye for some poor stranger and a fun new lawsuit for me.

As if I need more bullshit legal drama.

I'm ruefully aware that my mood is the complete antithesis of what one should have while sitting in the sun on a beautiful beach at a wonderful resort. And I have tried really fucking hard to see the _beauty _and the _wonder_ here, but it's like the black clouds of my life from back home followed me onto the plane, to my first class seat and all the way through my five-star hotel, just to settle here with me on this beach.

And now I'm surrounded by the warmth of the sun, the salt of the ocean, and the spice of the tropical air…and all I can think is I either want another goddamn drink or an express ticket out of this dreadfully breathtaking place.

But I know that can't happen. I can't go home. And I know I truly don't want to fuckin' be there with all the stares and the not so whispered whispers. I still don't know what's worse; the looks or whispers of inappropriate amusement at the expense of my newly fucked up life or the eyes that I've been unfortunate to meet that have pity for poor ol' Chief Swan's daughter in them.

So home is out for now.

But as miserable as I would be in Forks, it's _this_ place that I can't stand, even though it's not the resort's fault whatsoever. It's just me and my warped way of thinking, since I'm not exactly a happy camper, and haven't been one in a while actually, the last thing I really want is to be sitting on a beach alone while the entire populace surrounding me frolics in the sunshine with big cheesy ass smiles on their faces.

Correction: the last thing I want is to be sitting here on the beach, full of happiness and sunshine, alone and _sober._

Remembering my oncoming sober status nearly makes me growl in aggravation. I'm firm in the resolution that while I'm here and made to suffer through the motions of attempting to have fun, I will do it with dry eyes and a consistently full glass.

After another ten minutes of scanning the area for the nearest waiter on the beach, things are looking bleak.

Now, I know that I _could_ just head over to the small, yet oh so convenient bar set up a few feet from where my butt is parked, but it's the _principle_.

"What principle?" you may be asking.

If I were good and drunk, I'd probably be able to tell you.

Resisting the urge to scream and hoping to get a dutiful waiter's attention, I renew my search for a stray server on the beach. I was not moving from this chair until I was sufficiently drunk enough to fall off of it.

As I'm not really a loud drunk, or loud at all really, the chances of me screaming for a mojito are about slim to nil.

But for every minute I don't see someone with the ability to freshen up my glass, I get closer and closer to breaking character and letting loose a very un-Bella-like bellow.

I'm starting to really curse my own seating arrangement; as blissfully secluded as my spot is, it's a bit hellish to get a drink here…evidently. But still, I can't complain. My chosen seat has guaranteed that I won't have to make awkward small talk with anybody on the beach, where I may accidentally admit why I'm here. Hell, I've spent the past few days trying to forget why I'm here.

And coming here alone doesn't exactly help my chances of keeping it that way; I'm the perfect picture of alone and vulnerable, and the very last thing I need is some loser with his beer belly poking through a Hawaiian shirt deciding to get chummy with me because I look desperate.

I don't even try to fight the shudder at that imagined scenario.

Although, contrary to the discomfort that being here alone has given me, I'm not too disgruntled about it. I need this time to reflect, grow, and other bullshit that comes out of some self help book or movies with Julia Roberts in them. Also, I know that my two best friends would have come with me, but, under the circumstances, they couldn't make it to my self pity party. Rosalie's stomach resembles a beach ball more and more each day, _though I'd __**never**__ say that_, so traveling is out for her. And Alice…well Alice is preparing to marry the love her life back in Seattle. She's preparing for a wedding that I'm _supposed _to be the maid of honor in. And instead of doing all the crazy wedding planning with the bride, I'm here on this beach.

I had failed my best friend.

I can't stop thinking about how badly things have gotten. How they've gotten so bad that I've been shipped to Cabo, one way, because I couldn't handle the fact that my husband- "ex husband" callously threw away everything, including me. I think that of all the things that have happened recently, me snapping and having a nervous breakdown is probably top five material for worst moments ever. Trust me; I've had plenty of sleepless nights to rank them.

This is my first attempt at being on the beach since I've been here, which is kind of pathetic because the resort is just a short walk from the beach. I had promised that I wouldn't spend the whole trip here staring at the four walls of my extravagant hotel room…I only spent one day doing that, and I'm sticking to my story of jet lag.

So today, I got up, covered myself in the most effective sunscreen money could buy, donned swim gear that I probably wouldn't use, marched out of the room before the sun could rise high enough to beckon early beachgoers, and set up camp in a pretty ideal spot near the ocean and bar.

The perks of not being able to sleep at night.

I had promised Alice and Rose that I'd do anything in order to come back to Forks in a better state than when I left there. Though they'd never say it, they are depending on me, so the least I could do is drink a little liquor from some hollowed out coconuts and try to take in the view. But with every sober thought that creeps into my mind, familiar feelings of guilt, suppressed rage and shame fill me up until it's too much to bear.

It took less than a year for my sham of a life to begin snowballing until it hit me like an avalanche, ruining everything I'd worked so hard in life to build. I don't know how many nights I can lay in bed, sifting through all the memories of the wreckage.

I'm just so fuckin' tired.

This brings me to my need of drink number…number…

Quick, what comes after five?

Before I can panic further at my ignorance of basic _Sesame Street_ education, something really fucking shiny catches my eye. It's caught my attention immediately due to the fact that it's able to penetrate the darkness of my cat eye sunglasses; contraband from my mother's closet in Arizona.

Don't judge me. They were just sitting in a dusty box and hadn't seen the sun in years…bad pun intended.

Distractedly, I pull my glasses off with one hand and settle them onto my stomach, determined to see past the glare of this unidentified sparkling object, to um…identify it. It's such a small thing, whatever it is, but the tiny glint pierces my eyes so much that it rivals the sun's brightness. I squint to see what could possibly be shining so brightly, and am finally able to make out the tiny beads of glistening water blinking at me from a nest of frenzied copper toned tendrils. As the glinting brightness moves slightly away from the sun, I'm able to discern where the water is coming from fully, and realize that it's attached to a person.

How the fuck could water shine so brightly?

Either I'm really fucking drunk, or I'm starting to sober up and shit's less hazy.

Nevertheless, the sparkly head of hair is quite intriguing to me, and I'm momentarily captivated at the way the wind is playing with it. After a minute of watching it ruffle slightly in the breeze, I decide to look down to see what else the magical hair is attached to, and I immediately have to stifle a gasp.

If I was captivated by that unusually eye-catching head of hair, that's nothing to how mesmerized I am by what is attached to it. The rest of his body is glistening in the sun as he ambles quietly at the water's edge, staring at the darkened, sea-beaten sand beneath his feet. A beautifully eerie glow emanating from the sun behind his body sharpens the planes of his deliciously defined body; his skin is beaded with miniscule drops of water creating a glistening effect on his long, lean pale body. The paleness of his body is rare in comparison to the multitude of tanned people that I've seen for the past few days; it increases the uniqueness of his presence.

After ogling the well muscled expanse of his broad chest, I feel the need to look at his face, even though I'm risking a near fatal swoon at the collective sinful allure of this man. I realize that I've risen in my seat, peering steadily at his slow moving form trying to gaze at his face but he's too far away, and the sun is making it difficult to see much. I could cry. But I won't because that'd just make it harder to see what I can.

I bite my lip as I let my eyes travel lower back down his body, past an undoubtedly ginger treasure trail, past the incredible V of his abs, and stopping to find navy blue swim trunks hanging wickedly off his sexy wet hips. Even though I know this isn't a nude beach, I can't stop the immediate disappointment that comes over me when I find the lower half of his body covered. I'd been so willing to see his…wait a minute.

Navy trunks.

God bless him, he's wearing the same navy-ish trunks that all the other waiters are wearing.

With a quick jolt, I realize I'm saved.

I won't die of thirst!

I must signal him!

Before he can wander off too far towards all of the people to the left of my private oasis, I prepare to call over to him.

I idly wonder if he'll even notice me in what I'm wearing, it probably looks like a really dark wig and glasses were strategically placed on this beach chair.

I'm wearing a little white bikini, another "donation" from my mother's closet. Renee had shown me pictures of her wearing it, not forgetting to mention that the photo was taken a year before I "ruined her body beyond repair." And you wonder where I get the melodrama from. Instead of the appropriate amount of guilt she had attempted to heap on me, I'd felt nothing but the smuggest pride whenever I put the simple two- piece on. Sometimes, while I'm wearing it, I just want to call my mother and blow a raspberry into the receiver.

And even though the sun block is completely necessary in my case, I can't fight the fact that I smell like a banana cream pie.

Oh, and just for added measure, I haphazardly stuck a humongous floppy sunhat over my long wavy hair, just before I left.

Seeing as how I'm as pale as the white sand beneath my feet- I shit you not- if I didn't wear this get up, I'd fry like bacon.

Put that all together and all I'm missing is a pretentious line of pearls to string around my neck to make me look like Natalie Wood or something.

I roll my eyes at how utterly ridiculous I'll look when Senor Sexy comes here to get me a drink.

Oh well, I'm more thirsty than I am vain.

"You there!" I yell, if you can actually call it a yell. Most of my thoughts haven't exactly been voiced lately, so I can feel the strain my throat makes just to produce the hoarse sound. After a few seconds, the distracting wanderer doesn't appear to lift his head to my voice, not that I can actually blame him, but before I can clear my throat to make a second attempt at catching his attention, I see his head look in my direction.

The sparkly ginger boy looks around himself, silently asking if he's the one meant to be summoned.

I decide to help him out with a "Yes, you there!" and proceed to wave him over. He takes that as a billboard sign to approach me. I can't help but feel giddy at the dual opportunity of a refill and to see Adonis guy's face, because judging from his lickable body and his sexy windswept hair, I know I'm in for some major swoonage here.

By the way, I'm horrifyingly aware that I haven't used the words "lickable" and "swoonage" since I was in college.

Better make it a light margarita this time, Bella.

I'm determined not to make a fool of myself as he continues in my direction, with an almost aerial grace, not that overly-done ego driven swagger that most young men tried to pull. All bets of keeping my cool are off when I look at his face, his unblemished face that appears to have been chiseled by some Italian sculptor who was asked to carve male perfection.

His forehead is smooth with errant strands of his wild bronze hair sticking to the front of it; I can barely make out his dark eyebrows from underneath it. His eyes seem to be equal in its competition with the rest of his body for stunning me, his deep verdant gaze is probably the most alluring thing I've ever seen, and I have to fight to keep from swooning over the rest of his beautiful features.

His strong squared jaw is dusted with a day's growth of facial hair, adding a rugged look to his soft facial features and slightly aging him.

His lips alone have me teetering on that dangerous edge that could make me jump up screaming "Kiss me, you fool!" So invitingly full, I could only just imagine how soft those lips are, a pleasant contrast to all of the striking features on his hard body.

I've never felt so brazen as I continue to take in this man's face and body. The response he's elicited from me is most unexpected, and I'm not sure I'm handling it well.

I might be drooling.

I'm in the middle of counting all the beads of water on his abs, yearning to collect each one on my tongue, when I hear his throat clearing.

Now _there's_ an odd look. As I look back at his face, his features are an intense cross between confusion and apprehension, the tiniest crease in between his thick eyebrows. It's like he's trying to figure me out without words, but he also seems to be very guarded, like he's wary of something. He opens his mouth and closes it, apparently cutting off a previous line of speech, before he settles into this look of expectation, like he's waiting on something.

Hmm, must be his first day on the job.

Before I can think to say something to him, he speaks.

With that same look of nervous confusion he asks me "Miss-?"

Overjoyed that he can speak English and that I won't have to resort to high school Spanish, I immediately smile up at him, because with a mug like that, who wouldn't, and show him my empty glass with the intention of telling him I need a new drink.

He makes no move to take it, and we're back at square one. But instead of his confused stare aimed at me, he's now focusing on the glass in my outstretched hand.

Yeah, definitely his first day.

"Um, margarita?"

Okay, as hot as he is, he's _really_ gotta get with the program here…maybe I was wrong about the English before.

A full minute of him staring between the glass and my face and something appears to slowly dawn on him. Thank god for whatever it is because the lost look is completely wiped off of his face and replaced with this sort of lazy half grin that makes his eyes light up, and I'm finally starting to feel like we're _connecting_ here.

He takes the glass with a shaky nod and starts to back away from me, but the weird thing is that he keeps looking at my face bemusedly with that cute little smile that both confuses and arouses me.

Very peculiar.

Must be Mexico.

Oh well, nothing to worry about; he'll come back with a nice glass of tall frosty goodness and everything will be fine.

Well as fine as it can be while I'm getting wasted in a strange place, trying to escape the metaphorical demons borne from the shambles of my ruined life…okay this is why I need that drink.

For the record, I'm not an alcoholic, if that's what you're thinking.

Well, of course that's what you're thinking…but don't think that.

I'll have you know that from the time I was legally able to drink, I had no more than the occasional glass of wine or rare flute of champagne. I never drank much mostly because I was a bit of a lightweight and kind of a goody two shoes.

I really resent that. The goody two shoes thing. It's the theme of my entire life.

I've been following all the rules since before I was in preschool. Perfect attendance, perfect grades, perfect manners. Everything about me was inscrutable, but in hindsight everything about my life was boring. Just a monolithic marathon of studying, volunteer work and chores.

My life was comprised of rigorous routines and a high moral code. I had always lived in the belief that I just had high standards for myself, that I was just setting up for a perfectly average existence and that if I earned it through hard work, honesty and faith that I could have whatever I wanted and be happy.

What a load of horseshit that was.

Don't get me wrong, that naively upbeat mentality worked in my favor quite a few times. I had kept a smile on my face when my mother walked out on my father and me when I was 11. I had told myself that her generic birthday cards were the only form of mothering that I really needed and gradually accepted the choice she'd made. After a year, I didn't even cry myself to sleep anymore.

My mother's flakiness only strengthened my morale to not be like her, so I worked my ass off all through elementary school, middle and high school earning top grades and keeping out of trouble. My dateless weekends were filled with homework and shifts at the local diner serving up pie to sleepy truckers. Because of this, I was able to snag a full ride to UW, and my father couldn't have been more proud.

And really, what wasn't there to be proud of? I was responsible, selfless, intelligent and, to my father's almost annoying satisfaction, a virgin.

I went to college and met my two best girlfriends, who eventually helped me to loosen up a bit and not be such a hermit, though I still retained my bookwormy and quiet demeanor. Not too soon in my college career, I began an internship with a high school in Seattle, teaching my all-time favorite subject, English. I eventually grew comfortable in the safe life I'd made for myself, so when I graduated, I didn't hesitate to become a teacher at my old high school and adopt the secure small town lifestyle my father had by staying in Forks.

Everything seemed to be falling into place, so it was no surprise that around the time I had set out into the real world, small as it was, I was approached with another change. And I started dating it.

At the time, I couldn't help but feel like the virtuous princess that was finally being rescued by the shiny white knight.

Too bad he turned out to be a slimy frog.

A sharp pain alerts me to release my bottom lip from its death trap between my teeth. I'm immediately annoyed at how fast my thoughts had become so pathetic. I shove my sunglasses over my eyes, solely blaming the sun for the stinging moisture gathering in my eyes.

Just before my scowl becomes too comfortable on my face, I see the familiar form of the handsome waiter.

I am barely able to control the urge to fist pump as I see a drink in his hand.

He may have been a little slow on the uptake earlier but he's really come through.

I'm fighting for composure towards his heavenly appearance as he gets nearer with my drink, and for a moment I can't honestly say what I'd rather have.

But I'm getting carried away, and I know I have to stop my crazy train of thoughts right on the tracks. Even if I could have him, which is a long shot considering the circumstances, I probably couldn't _be_ with him. I mean, besides the obvious and gaping differences in appearance, where he's all young, sexy, interesting and I'm just none of the above, there's no way I could do anything more than simply admire the pleasant view this man offered me. For one thing, he's a complete and total stranger, and I'm way too practical for that sort of thing.

And really, as much I can feel my body's awareness to this guy, the rest of me isn't getting the signal. The pain of becoming involved with anyone else so soon after everything, it overrides any imaginings of pleasure I could get from this man.

But as long as I keep that in mind, it doesn't hurt to look. Every girl deserves a good ogle.

* * *

This time, I'm trying to be less conspicuous with my said ogling as he comes close to me with my drink and that adorable timid smile on his face. I make a move to rifle through my beach bag to pay him, when he speaks.

"Oh, um, you don't have to pay for it," his soft voice is a little shaky and hesitant, but it doesn't hide the smooth deep tenor of his voice that, like the rest of him, turns me on.

Before I find myself falling deeper into fantasies featuring him, I manage to surface to reality. And what a strange reality it is. I've had to pay the other guys for my drinks, plus tip, I remember that much. And I know I'm not exactly firing on all cylinders right now, but his voice is devoid of any foreign accent at all. He's just as American as I am.

Something is really off about him, and for the first time I truly take a look at him. Like _really_ look at him.

Okay, besides tall, pale, and handsome, he's also pretty young looking. I'd say he's a college kid, but you never really can tell with these things, especially with the light stubble covering his jaw. Then, of course, he speaks perfect English and doesn't appear to be from around here whatsoever.

In fact, now that I'm looking at his shorts…they're the wrong shade of navy.

The clearing of his throat, again, brings me back out of my thoughts and into the curiously speculative gaze of his piercing green eyes. It's like he's trying to look right through me, and I have to say it's quite unnerving. I'm just about to ask him what's wrong with him but then his eyes soften along with the rest of his expression.

I don't know what it is about this guy, but I feel really weird around him. Like my whole being is more aware around him; it's like I'm waking up slowly. And what's more, I don't think this guy's a waiter.

So why would he pretend to be a waiter?

I'm not entirely sure how to go about this. I'm completely at a loss as to why he would do it, but I have a gut feeling that it's true.

And if it is true, I kinda feel like Sherlock for piecing it together.

I know I should be angry, or at least a little freaked out, but for some reason I just find this pretty funny. I'm dying to know why he's doing this. And since I'm already more than a little bored and he looks so adorably anxious, I just have to mess with him a little.

I've run through my thoughts fairly quickly while he's been standing there holding that drink, and I think the silence is starting to get to him because he's shifting from one foot to the other and his carefree smile is looking less carefree by the second.

I decide to do a little throat clearing of my own and give him my best smile to make sure he's completely focused on what I'm about to say.

"Tell me something," I start conversationally, "do you normally play waiter for strangers in Mexico?" I ask bluntly. My eyebrow is arched in an attempt to be stern, but I just can't wipe the smirk off my face.

But the joke's on me because I totally underestimated how nervous he really is; he startles at the abrupt exposure of his ruse and drops the blue margarita he'd brought me on my ankle, ice and all.

I shriek in shock as he mutters, "Oh shit," and immediately drops to the ground to try and help, but he seems at a loss as his hand hovers uncertainly above the bare skin of my ankle.

And I just start fucking laughing. I'm talking full on belly laughs complete with snorts and gasping.

The ridiculousness of the situation; his "clever" trick, his guilty face, his shocked expression at being found out and his Bella-esque klutz routine involving what was once my drink and my now slightly blue tinged ankle.

I'm trying so hard to calm myself because he looks so painfully embarrassed.

Blood has completely suffused his face and the poor guy looks like he's looking for a hole in the sand in which to bury himself.

Still giggling stupidly, I reach for my bag and toss him a towel; my version of an olive branch, if you will.

I'm still snorting as he gently cleans off my ankle with my purple beach towel when his voice filters through, "What gave me away?" He's staring intently at my ankle as he continues rubbing it with the towel, a wry little smile on his face.

"Once I thought about it, it was fairly obvious", He hands me back the towel and sits at the end of my beach chair. "I couldn't help but notice how _American_ you are," I explain, as my laughs die down. I hope my tone is more friendly than accusatory; I'm not mad at him.

His expression is comical, and I nearly laugh aloud as he scratches the back of his neck while staring at my feet. As if my big toe is gonna help him out of this.

He looks so nervous; I almost don't want to keep this up. _Almost._ It's obvious that there's something that he wants, otherwise he'd have taken off by now. And I really want to figure it out because this is the first time I've felt something other than self pity or boredom in awhile. I'm getting a rather obscene amount of pleasure from the situation, so I'm running with it.

"I could speak to you in Spanish, if you want?" I can tell his offer is meant to be playful, but the idea of him whispering sweet Spanish nothings in my ear jumps into my brain without my permission. I'm nearly distracted from my questioning. The ghost of a smile is on his lips, and he seems more at ease. Well, at least he's looking at me now.

I'm determined not to let him have the upper hand; I keep my tone light and my smile serene. "No, you don't have to do that." _Please,_ don't do that. If he starts speaking any Spanish, the lower half of my swimsuit might just slide right off of me.

Silence takes hold of us once again. We're both looking everywhere but at each other as we listen to the waves and the sounds of other beachgoers. I break the silence first and nudge his leg with mine.

"Well, this is an unorthodox summer job." I start giggling again as he smiles back at me. He can tell what I'm asking, and he doesn't seem to mind answering now that it's all out in the open.

He exhales heavily and rolls his eyes. "It's just that you called me over and asked me for that damn drink with that beautiful smile on your face." His voice is an embarrassed grumble towards the sand, and I have to strain to hear him, "I just couldn't say no to you." He looks over at me with a heartbreaking look on his face, and laughs darkly, "Real smooth, huh?"

Well damn.

I just sort of look at him and heave a sigh because I know this is a bad idea. I unsteadily rise from the beach chair, ignoring the popping noises of protest that come from my long-dormant joints. He's not looking at me, almost like he doesn't want to watch me leave, so when I stick my hand out to him, he looks surprised.

I smile down at him, "Come on, as I'm currently wearing my drink, you're getting me a new one"

* * *

We're strolling arm and arm, making our way towards the little bar on the beach when a thought occurs to me.

I look up at him, giggling like a schoolgirl at the broad smile on his perfect face, "How'd you get that margarita, anyway?"

"What?" He looks down at me bemusedly, the smile still plastered on his face.

"You are above the legal drinking age, right?" I laugh a little so the question isn't so insulting.

"Let me assure you, I'm old enough to do much more than drink." I'm caught off guard by the complete change in his attitude. He has me locked in his heated gaze, making me imagine all the things he's of age to do to me. He's exuding a confidence that he hadn't possessed on the beach, and I wonder how long it will last.

I'm losing a forgotten battle as I watch his pink tongue quickly smooth over his lips, his subtle innuendo still washing over me as if he'd asked to fuck me. I've never felt this tempted by anything before.

I notice that his focus mirrors mine as he stares at my lips, and I wonder if his thoughts are akin to my own. In that moment we're just two people in the world, alone and standing on the edge of reason, waiting for the other to take the plunge.

We're also two idiots standing on a suddenly crowded sidewalk, in the way of three children accompanied by an elderly lady, who is probably cussing us out in Spanish as she pushes past us.

It's a very abrupt yet necessary shove back into sanity, and I break away from his firm hold on my hips. The weird part is that I don't even know how we got so close together, with his surprisingly sure hands holding my hips and my hands pressed against his chest. But we did. And even though it's obvious how susceptible I am to this man's charms, it still doesn't deter me from getting at least one drink with this increasingly seductive stranger.

* * *

"Okay, so what are we drinking to, _now_?" I can practically hear his eyes rolling and the laugh in his voice that lets me know he's both annoyed and amused at the game we've been playing.

"Oh no, it's your turn." I try to stop the drunken giggles that are issuing from me every other second, but I truly am having the most fun in…well, _ever_.

I lean against his arm with my eyes closed as I wait on him to give his quote, preparing myself to stupidly giggle some more and take another shot of whatever.

But instead of continuing on with the theme of choosing a drinking quote that's either funny or clever, he surprises me with his choice of recitation.

"I pray you do not fall in love with me, For I am falser than vows made in wine."

Through the haze of a half a dozen shots, I'm able to catch the words within the hypnotizing lull of his voice. The sincerity is sobering enough, but the message is so taunting, begging me to decipher its meaning so much that I look up at my sexy drinking buddy for the first time in what's probably been hours.

He's looking down at me, propped up against his strong arm. His eyes say so much more than his veiled words. And in the dimming light of the setting sun, he just appears so much older and knowing than the unassuming boy on the beach. His eyes are brightest jade as they seemingly stare deep inside of me, willing me. But willing me to do _what_?

Is he just as aware of how close we are to one another? Not just in distance, but in other ways that I can't even describe fully.

Are his cryptic words and imploring gaze a last ditch effort of warning me to run back to the safety of my lonely hotel room?

He misunderstands my response of silence and confusion, seemingly disappointed in the fact that I don't catch on. "It's Shakespeare," he laughs self consciously. He must think I'm not familiar, but, on the contrary, I'm all too familiar with the bard's work.

In an effort to reassure him of both my intelligence and of our connection, I immediately comment, "Yes, _As You Like It_. I know." I'm smiling, but I'm not sure it's too convincing because my head is still spinning over that damn quote.

His obvious satisfaction of my recognizing the line makes me fall shakily on more doubt. Maybe I'm reading far too much into his quote. Maybe he's just a big fan of Shakespeare. I mean he is _sorta_ popular, I guess.

I've been doing this shit all night.

Ping ponging between suspicion and ease.

I know it's crazy, but the longer I'm with him, the more I think that his every action and word is _significant._ Our initial meeting, the innuendo, every loaded stare; it all just seems so surreal, like he was strategically placed on the beach by someone, just to pour a drink on my leg. And then rationale comes in with some buzzword like 'coincidence', placating me enough to keep drinking and enjoying the company of a cute stranger.

But then he says shit like this or stares at me like he's waiting on something. _Waiting on me._ So, I just keep drinking and wondering. Wondering if it's all in my head, or wondering if I'll figure out what the fuck is going on here…if there is even something going on.

I down the rest of my drink to avoid another one of those aforementioned stares and try to drive the paranoia from my mind.

Maybe I should just leave. I'm not in the mood for games, and I'm obviously not in the mindset to win any.

Before I can think of an excuse, he speaks. "How'd you know?"

I'm immediately puzzled at this question, especially since it's the first question he's asked me all day. "About what, Shakespeare?"

"Yes, Shakespeare." He's looking at me now, and I'm still staring at my empty glass because I suddenly feel tense around him. Too aware.

My answer is automatic, "Well, I teach, back h-," I clear my throat over the word 'home" uncomfortably, "…where I'm from. I teach English." I have no idea why I'm answering him so honestly, must be the alcohol. I make a note to stop drinking right now before I tell him my bra size or something.

The look on his face and the questions in his eyes are too much for me, so I turn away to look around us for the first time in awhile. The stars have begun to peek out of the hazy purplish sky; I've never witnessed such an array of colors in the sky before. In Forks, all you can see are varying shades of gray or the timid powdery blue on a rare day of fair weather.

The heat is like a warm blanket now, no longer oppressive and for the first time I'm actually feeling comfortable and relaxed. I'm not sure whether I have present company or the scenery to thank, but I won't dwell on it right now.

There are people out still, adults mostly, moving languidly over the sand on the surrounding beach, sauntering quietly at the water's edge. It's like the entire world has slowed down.

Beyond us, a bonfire catches my eye. The light silhouettes the people surrounded by it; some sitting, one playing a guitar. But I barely notice them for the couples dancing around the bonfire slowly. Lovers embracing each other, moving to the slow romantic sway of the music.

It's funny; I hadn't noticed the beautiful sound until now.

And just like that, the temporary contentment I've recently found has been rendered artificial.

I'm here in Cabo, getting hammered with a stranger who's probably only putting up with me out of pity. And I'm only here in the first place because I couldn't handle my own pathetic life.

Shame and despair consume me so quickly that it nearly steals my breath.

I shouldn't be here.

"The music's pretty, isn't it, love?" His soft voice beckons me from my private wave of bitterness and unburied pain. My eyes are closed as I nod in answer, but they immediately open when I feel his surprisingly cool hand in my own. "Dance with me."

It's not a request.

It's like a dream how quickly he's removed me from our spot at the bar and my haunted thoughts, but I'm so grateful that I don't even care if this is a dream. I welcome his hold on my body and my mind and give into the sweet acoustic music that's flowing effortlessly through my body, loosening up my limbs so that I move more gracefully than I ever have in my entire life.

How many songs has the unknown guitarist strummed for us? How many minutes, hours, days have I been held by the most wonderful smelling, warmth that I've ever known? I truly couldn't tell you, everything's a blissfully hazy blur as I turn in his very capable hands, over and over, round and round.

It's the sweetest sensation of contradiction; I feel as if I'm floating, like there's little difference between myself and the air surrounding us, but at the same time the hold this man has on me is unmistakably tangible. I feel so close to him that I could slide inside of him if I wanted to, and I do want to. I've never wanted to be so close to someone.

I've never felt this way. I'm self aware enough to acknowledge that. He's awakened something inside of me, and I want to explore it with him. I don't want anything or anyone to take me from this moment, but I can't help but want more. More of him, anything he'll give me. I'm already creating ways to ask him to come with me to my room but, again, he seems to know what I need before I voice it.

"I know I should have asked before, but are you here with someone?"

Just you, I want to tell him, but instead I just shake my head, not trusting myself to speak.

"Take me to your room, Bella." His deep husky voice vibrates in his chest against my head that's pressed against it. My hand rests over his strong beating heart. His arms hold me tightly, but gently. For all of the physical evidence I'm being given, I'm still unsure as to whether he exists in my most delirious fantasies. Whether what I just heard him say is a part of some hopeful dream.

I've taken too long to answer, and now he's pulling away. But before I can cry out in protest, his lips are on my forehead and he's whispering, "Please," and I realize that if this is a dream, I'll do anything to have him in it as long as possible.

* * *

**Second chapter will be up as soon as it's edited, which is very soon.**

**BTW I'm on Twitter under peachyfuzzykeen, I tweet story info and randomness. Good randomness. **

**Thanks for reading, hope you liked. **


	2. The Greatest View

**A/N:**

**Just want to give a heads up that this story is rated M for a reason, one of the reasons being this chapter.**

**Just sayin'. **

**Thanks so much to BelleDuJour and fmfg from PTB for looking this one over. **

**SM owns.**

* * *

I guess I didn't have as much to drink as I thought. I'm amazed at my own speed and agility as I guide us back to my hotel. I don't stumble in my thoughts or my strides as I keep a firm hold on his hand. He's willingly trailing me, silently letting me take him back to my room, and I tingle all over from the unsaid expectations and stifled excitement.

I'm a livewire. I feel everything as I rush us up the path to the hotel building; the heat on my skin is nothing to the blood in my cheeks that has collected there from my lustful thoughts. But the most vivid sensation is the feel of his hand in mine as I lead him inside the elevator. The ride is filled with heavy silence and the occasional glance in each other's direction. I'm still holding his hand as I lean back on the wall of the elevator, trying to catch my breath and slow my fluttering heart.

I'm trying to calm down but not enough to rethink this entire thing. I know I'm pretty much the last person on earth who would ever consider taking a stranger up to their room, but there's something about this particular stranger that makes me sort of trust him.

Despite his somewhat mysterious behavior and the fact that I know fuck all about the guy.

Semantics, really.

Somehow we're the only people in the elevator, so the chime that goes off signaling that we've reached my floor, echoing throughout the small space. It makes me jump a little, and I ruefully realize that I'm starting to succumb to nerves.

I _want_ this. Whatever it is.

But old habits die hard. Annoying good girl habits that keep you from letting someone you barely know into your hotel room.

Sensing my sudden apprehension, he pulls me into his side and out of the elevator. The closeness soothes my nerves instantly and gives me further incentive to continue on to my room before my resolve can waver again. We set off quickly in the direction of my door, and we still haven't spoken a word. Maybe he's having second thoughts, but I'm too far gone and a little scared to ask him.

As soon as I get the door open, I'm wondering what I should say to him, when all of a sudden I'm being pressed forcefully against the door. His warm body holding me to the cold topaz painted door is only slightly less sensational than the exquisite press of his lips on mine. Pleasure overrides the shock of being so deliciously close to him, so fast, as I eagerly respond.

I'm overwhelmed with how much I had wanted him to kiss me. I'm now just realizing how I had never allowed this image to lock into my mind.

The real thing is so much more satisfying than any dim imagining. His lips are a soft, wet persuasion, begging me to yield into the kiss. I take his upper lip between my own, sucking gently at the soft skin as he nips at my lower lip, causing me to shiver in his arms, and I wonder if it's normal to become weakened by such a simple act as this.

But as he expertly begins to massage my tongue with his own, I wonder if I've ever truly been kissed.

As I try to savor his sinfully sexy taste, I'm thrown into another wave of sensory gratification when his hands become restless. With gentle urgency, they are everywhere; long fingers running playfully through my hair, his nails skimming teasingly down my bare arms, the back of his thumb stroking the apple of my cheek, all in no particular order. I understand his urge to touch and feel as I run my hands over him in the same fashion; the tips of my fingers tread carefully on the deep divots of his bare abs, moving past the strong tensing ridges of his muscled back before I finally settle my hands into his soft, thick hair.

The room is dark, and the absence of sight causes my other senses to intensify. Every sound is amplified; the erratic beat of my heart is breathless and I can swear he hears it. Nothing is hidden in the darkness, with our bodies so close together and it makes me feel self conscious when I moan the first time because the needy sound lingers in this room, letting him know just how much I need him. I've never been so vocal before. But soon I'm past caring when his teeth press into my neck, causing me to shudder and clutch him tighter to me. He feels so good, and his kisses have my body ready for so much more.

My hands are shaky, a combination of nerves and excitement, as I move my hands toward the waistband of his damp swimming trunks. My thumb brushes his navel and I smile as he hisses; his abs tensing. But just before I can undo the knot, he clasps my hands in his own, stopping me. I look up at him in stark confusion, trepidation trickling into my stomach like the coldest rain.

"Bella, there's something you should know."

The other shoe? Consider it dropped.

He avoids my stare, his hands ball up and as he takes a step away from me and I want to be disappointed, but all I can feel is frustration. It's so fucking typical for something good to go wrong. Why would I think he would be any exception, especially him?

But for once, and you can chalk it up to liquid courage, I don't want to hear it. This time, I'm not letting myself get hit by the other dropping shoe.

This is the first time in my entire life that I've truly desired something. I wanted him from the moment I laid eyes on him, as hard as I had tried to deny it. I had figured he was just too good to be for me. At least not without a drawback. So I had hid behind propriety and doubts, but really I was just afraid of consequences, rejection.

Well fuck that. As hypocritical as this is, I want him. And judging from his actions…and his hard-on…I don't think I'm wrong in thinking he wants this too.

I look into his glowing green eyes. The same eyes that have been looking at me with desire this whole evening, and I'm suddenly emboldened when he closes his eyes to me, breathing out a heavy sigh. Strength comes curiously and unexpectedly; it allows me to reach for him as I stare at his beautiful face in the limited moonlight.

His clenched eyes open slowly when I place my hand on his face; he looks so conflicted. I can't keep my eyes off his, and they evoke such honesty. "There are so many things I should know, but there's only one thing that matters to me right now." He tries to look away from me but I won't have it. "Do you want me as much as I want you?" My whisper hovers around us, and I literally hold my breath as I wait for him to either give into what I feel for him or turn away from it.

From us.

My thumb that's been tracing the firm line of his stubble covered jaw moves up to rub his full bottom lip. I take my chance as he exhales a shaky breath and I pull him down to meet my ardent kiss; hoping he can feel all of the conviction I'm pouring into this connection between us.

Just how good this could be.

He resists for only a second more before he begins to kiss me back with renewed passion, a broken moan slipping from him. He breaks from my lips, but trails more wet hot kisses all the way up to my ear, just before he nips at the lobe. "I just wanted you to know my name," he whispers. "I want to hear you say it when I make you come." His lustful promise makes the ache between my legs double in intensity, and I'm suddenly dying to hear his name.

He stops kissing me for only a moment, "Edward, my name is Edward," he says softly against my throat.

"Edward." I can't help but smile at the way his name feels on my lips, even if he can barely see me in the faint glow from the bright starts reaching through the thin slats of the blinds. "Edward, do you want me?" I ask, because I need to know.

The question is all he needs in order to give into what we both want.

Slowly he lowers his head to mine and I part my lips, aching for his to touch mine once again. But then he leans into the side of my head and drops a single kiss behind my ear, so tender and sweet. The gesture robs me of all thought, all breath. I dwell on the unexpected innocence of him as he lingers there, his lips soft as a silken rose being traced on body as he trails kisses all the way to my neck. His slow pecks have me nearly closing my eyes at the soothingly sexy way he caresses my skin as he works his way down to my collarbones; each time his lips linger on my skin just a little bit longer, each time his mouth feels just a little bit hotter.

His teasing tasting kisses have me at the threshold of pain and pleasure as he scorches me with his tongue and teeth, until finally he's kneeling at my feet. The faint snapping of ripped thread as he nearly tears the bottom of my swim suit off is unexpected, causing me to jump and lean into him a little. His hands tighten their already sturdy hold on my hips to keep me from falling and he chuckles out an apology, his thumbs rubbing circles into my hip bones and causing me to arch into him. He kisses me just beneath my belly button; the air of his breath tickles me as I wiggle my swim suit the rest of the way off.

My bikini bottoms pool around my ankles and as I'm fumbling with the tie to my top, my feet suddenly leave the carpet. I squeal a little as I quickly reach around to lock my arms around his neck and there's just this youthful exuberance that laces around my heart, a carefree enthusiasm that I've never experienced. It's like I'm feeling _something _for the first time, and I don't fear the feelings that make my head swim and my heart float. I won't fly away. Not with him holding me. He laughs at the way I cling to him like a koala just before he kisses my head, and I'm once again abashed by his sweetness.

He sits me on the side of the turquoise down comforter covered bed and I attempt to smoothly scoot to the middle, but due to my extreme lack of equilibrium and two very dirty martinis; I tip over, landing in a messy sprawl. I can't stop laughing. Once I've managed to get my messy hair out of my face, I look up at the loveliest view Mexico could ever offer me; he's standing between my legs with his teeth sunk into his lip, wet and swollen from my kisses and my giggling stops immediately as I notice how very naked he is right now.

Vulnerability quickly kindles inside of me from the burn of his heated gaze on every inch of me. So naked. I tremble from the intensity of his stare and in reaction to my obvious nervousness; he softens his sexy smirk into that sweet smile that never fails to disarm me. He approaches me in a crouch, placing one knee on the bed, making my heart and stomach dip in tandem with the indentation his other knee makes into the mattress. Before I know it, he's hovering over me, lifting my chin to meet his lips, effortlessly claiming my very willing body.

I try to keep my eyes open, not wanting to miss all the erotically chaotic ways he's driving me insane but soon I'm succumbing to his ministrations, closing my eyes as his hands find purchase on my breasts, aching and wanting for his touch. I struggle to keep the sounds of my pleasure from filling this entire building as his fingers pinch at my puckered nipples. His tongue and teeth devote their attention to them, gently tugging and licking. Rubbing and kissing. I can feel myself getting wetter, thrusting upwards in search of his offering that I desperately want to take. His expert exploration of me gives me such pause. How the hell could he possibly know just how to make me want to lose myself to him? He's not even inside of me yet and I feel like I could come from overstimulation alone.

_Fuck, it's been awhile._

His beard scratches lightly against my skin, chilling my spine as I arch into his hovering form. I've never understood what it was like to want to be so close to someone that you'd want to fall inside of them, not until his skin connected with mine. But with every sweep of his tongue, with every nibble of his teeth, I can't help but feel like his arms could_ never_ hold me closer.

My nails dig into his back as his hand trails slowly down my stomach, and my eyes roll back into my head when one long digit makes its way inside of me. Quiet whimpers are all I allow to escape as my hand sweeps his lower torso, just above the crisp hairs belying his heavy erection. I revel in the feel of his finger slowly moving in and out of me but I'm not distracted by it, not even as he continues nipping and licking at my neck.

I need to feel him, too.

My breath chokes on the low moan that sounds in my ear as I finally wrap my hand around his cock. I stroke him slowly, my thighs clenching around his body at the thought of him, so hot and hard, moving in me. He adds another finger, pumping me with three now and I hiss when his thumb rubs lightly on my clit. I can feel my pleasure coat his fingers, proof of how good he's making me feel.

I clutch at his biceps, moaning deeply as his fingers trail hotly down my slit as he makes sure I'm ready for him. And from the feel of his hard length on my thigh, it's a welcomed courtesy. It doesn't take long for him to be convinced; I'd been wet the second I'd seen him. As his fingers leave me, my hips rise in protest even though I know I'm about to get something a lot better.

I can't look away from him as the tip of him touches my clit, my hooded eyes don't leave his as he pushes seamlessly inside of me. My breath is held with anticipation and absolute wonder at how good he feels inside of me. He stretches me as his cock slowly slides to the very hilt, and I'm amazed at this feeling of fullness, as he continues to gingerly slide into me. He stills and my heart does too. I wonder why I'm reacting this way. He's not my first, by any means, but in some way, some obscure unspeakable way, it feels like it is.

His hips pull away from mine, and I exhale sharply at the sensation of him pulling out of me, only to whimper at he returns, filling me once more. His first thrusts are slow, experimental, but after awhile my impatience grows. I push my hips to his urgently, desperate for him to speed up. My hands explore the muscles of his back; I'm fascinated at the way they contract with each thrust. My hands run up to his shoulders as he drives himself into me. His movements are becoming harder and heavier, and I'm panting and whimpering in response to his increased force and speed. His arms are on either side of me as he supports himself; he grunts lowly with every deep stroke in and out of me.

I move my hands down to better feel the frenzied motions of his hips as he continues his strong thrusts, rotating his hips maddeningly when he reaches so deep inside of me. He looks at me, his eyes unreadable before he strokes my bangs out of my eyes caringly, and moves his head into my neck. His kisses have no form on my neck and throat, just a lazy drag of lips and tongue as he spreads my thighs even wider; hitting a spot that has me seeing stars in the ceiling of this hushed, dark room. His harsh breaths and moans are all I hear; his heart beats against my chest and my own mimics the broken rhythm. His scent perforates the very air, his touch burns through my skin; I am completely surrounded by him.

I derive pleasure from his every word, kiss and caress as he hooks my leg around his undulating hip, moving impossibly deeper inside of me. I meet every thrust, wanting to give back every ounce of pleasure he's giving me until I'm moaning uncontrollably, signaling my release. I move faster and faster, wildly chasing the unknown until my entire body locks onto his as I scream out my orgasm; his name the only word that I know and I don't think I'll ever have another thought that's not about him. I'm barely able to catch a glimpse of his elation before he succumbs to the same overwhelming ecstasy that has claimed me.

His breaths are short and quick against my neck as he struggles to bring himself back to me. I run my fingers through his hair as he calms. I'm spent as I fall asleep still feeling the imprint of his soft sweet kisses on my lips, cheeks and eyelids and the quiet murmur of my name in the dark.

* * *

I wake up alone, bathed in the bright sun coming from my window. I don't move, I just soak in the warmth; I don't want to open my eyes yet. The heavy glare beats against the vibrant walls; it must be way past noon.

I remember everything, and I'm not surprised that I do. I burrow into the bed, not wanting to come out of this moment. It was the most intense night in my entire life, even if I'm somewhat struggling to believe it was real. I roll over onto the pillows where he'd held me through the night, breathing in his unique scent. I can't place the aroma with anything because the delicious scent is mixed in with my own.

I had heard when he left. I felt him drop a lingering kiss on my forehead as I feigned sleep until he was gone. At the time, I didn't know why I chose not to see him out or at least say something to him. I'd just let him go, feeling a tug deep inside as he took a piece of me with him.

I'm laying here trying to absorb everything that's happened. It's not sinking in that I just had the most passionate night of my life with a complete stranger, while I was in the middle of mourning the loss of my marriage and the life I knew.

It's just not possible. This wasn't supposed to happen.

I think I'm in fucking shock.

I feel like I'm living someone else's life. Things like this don't happen to people like me.

But it _did. _

And I loved it.

The dual sensation of achiness and comfort in my limbs is proof enough without me being completely naked and smelling like sex, but I just can't believe what has happened. It's all happened so incredibly fast.

I sift through all the memories starting from when I first saw him to when he'd held me as I fell asleep in his arms. His bright green stare burns through my mind; I don't think I'll ever get it out.

I go through the thoughts over and over. The more I do this, the more I actually accept what's happened.

I just had sex with a complete stranger. A young and handsome stranger. In Mexico.

I'm torn between wanting to giggle and squeal over the whole thing or cry because I know what has to happen.

He'd given me more happiness in one night than I'd gotten from my whole life.

And I have to leave him.

There's just no way this can continue. It was a one-night stand; it has to be.

In the heat of passion, it's so easy to see forever with Edward; making love, and strolling on the beach. Being together. But I can't ignore the truth, as much as I want to. I'm thirty eight years old and going through a divorce, and he's much too young to be roped into my bullshit. Hell, even if he wanted to actually be involved with me, I'd never do that to him.

He deserves a full and happy life with someone who can offer him one. All I have is a dull and broken life in the dreary little town where I grew up. There'd be no room to grow for us because things will never change. I'll go back to Forks, and my life will be just a tiny bit better for knowing Edward.

But it won't exactly change.

I also can't ignore reason and priorities. As good as I feel when I'm with him, I don't exactly know him. The fact that I can get so wrapped up in this person without any further thought is altogether scary. I'm not the type to drop everything and forget the world over any guy. I have people that depend on me; I can't afford to further let anyone down.

No, I couldn't afford to follow another dead end dream.

It's best to leave, while I still can.

While it hurts less.

I didn't come to here to stay; I came here for a small reprieve for my pain, so I could move on. But I'd gotten so much more than that. And maybe that's all I needed; maybe that's all I'll ever need. From one special experience, I was able to touch the most tender emotions inside me, some of which I'd never known I could feel. From one passionate night, I was able to really see myself. I can take that with me and hold onto it forever.

But there's one thing I need to do first.

* * *

I've never been more grateful for how stubborn I am, until this moment. Somehow I'd known he'd be here. I watch him sit alone by the ocean, not far from where we first met, and I can literally feel my body rebel against my mind. But I'm able to remind myself of why I have to say goodbye right now.

I walk to where he is, ignoring the sting in my eyes as I see the little wooden beach chair where I'd first seen him. His brilliance hit me before I could ever really see him, like a ray of light.

That ray of light had caught me, but now I couldn't keep it.

I wonder if he'd known I would come.

I wonder if he had even wanted me to find him.

Has he been waiting for me?

I don't really care about messing up my jeans, as I sit down beside him in the sand. I wonder if he can tell it's me as I hesitantly take his hand in mine, smiling when he squeezes it. I shouldn't have doubted it; after last night, I shouldn't doubt this feeling ever. I'm so pleased that this isn't awkward and I'm glad I don't have to waste time; I can simply enjoy being comfortable with him for a little while longer.

I just want him to be mine. Just for a little while.

I sit watching the shapes of clouds change in the water. I ignore the lump of the unsaid that lingers in my throat. It's later than I thought; I can hear the people all around us as we gaze out into the water. Every now and then I catch his eye, but he doesn't say anything. He just looks to the sea and holds my hand. The feel of his thumb rubbing my hand will leave its mark on me. I'll feel him forever. It's almost time for the sun to set, and I realize that I've never truly watched a sunset.

I've never truly seen a lot of things, now that I think of it.

For the first time in my life, I feel like I've really lived, and I'll always be grateful to him for that. Even if he never knows it.

His hand tightens on mine slightly before he clears his throat, speaking for the first time, "There's something you should know, Bella." His expression is so weighted, a complete opposite of the easy happiness he wore with every smile as I danced in his arms last night.

I instantly know that I don't want to know. I just want to memorize the feeling of him holding my hand on this beach.

I sigh because I seriously can't handle a heavy conversation right now. "Can it wait till tomorrow?" My voice is small, and I feel so bad because tomorrow won't come for us. He gives me his sweet half grin and nods, turning to look at the water.

And I guess I should be cursing fate for bringing us together, only for me to leave, but all I can feel is immense gratitude for whatever brought this man to me. It's the most I could ever hope to have had, and I know I'll never regret it.

I fight hard to keep my gathering tears at bay. The culmination of my feelings, the heaviness in my heart merely comes out as a deep sigh.

Keeping my eyes on the horizon, I stare into the amber blaze of the sun, its radiance incomparable to all except the beautiful man beside me. I lean in and close my eyes.

"It really is beautiful here."

* * *

**A/N:**

**Thoughts?**

**I'd love to hear them :)**

**Thanks for reading.**


	3. No Chance of Rain

**A/N:**

**Okay, this is the first new chapter from the one shot. **

**It's officially continued!**

**Just want to thank Project Team Beta for sending me the awesomeness that is Bigblueboat and Alice's White Rabbit editing.**

**I'd also like thank Edmazing Cullen for being so sweet as to put the one shot version of this story on The Lemonade Stand. I appreciate that so much. And also, it's wicked awesome. **

**Hope you guys enjoy. **

**SM owns. **

* * *

You ever have that experience, that life ruining, serenity shattering experience where you're snoozing in the timid bluish glimpse of dawn, you're on that _cool _side of the pillow, your husband has _not_ stolen all your covers and your alarm isn't set to scare you to life for another hour and a half? That experience where you're half asleep and snuggling into your mattress when all of a sudden the violent booming and banging of the garbage truck comes storming through your morning, like a deranged off-key high school marching band, effectively waking you up to the point where you doubt you'll ever fall asleep again?

Well, I'm having a very similar experience except that instead of being woken up by that, I've been seated next to a goddamn human wood-chipper on this plane. From the corner of my one opened eye, I owlishly glare at the man next to me where the offensive sounds keep ripping from him in the slumbering silence of the plane. I think the most annoying thing about this is that I'm the only one that appears to have had their sleep disturbed by his Jurassic growling. And I'm usually such a heavy sleeper, too.

I make a piss-poor imitation of his snore by snorting like a bull in his direction, wishing there was a way I could rudely awaken him without being charged for assault … you know how touchy airlines are these days.

I realize that my face has written a check my poor neck couldn't cash as I gingerly move my head away from the window I had fallen asleep on; my cheek peels off the window like a sticker. No wonder I always feel so gross after flying.

Evidently, in my attempts to subconsciously get away from this guy, I opted to lean against the window instead of on the cheap pillow that is now a crushed lump of cotton behind my back, where it has slid down. My neck and head are throbbing from exhaustion and discomfort; I can't believe I forgot how much I hate to fly.

But I had forgotten pretty much everything ever since the sun went down on a beautiful evening on the beach.

I think that's the real reason I'm pissed off at Rip Van Winkle over here; he had interrupted me from a dream.

Well, it had been more like an altered memory.

I lay back, looking at the grey ceiling lined with little electronic push button lights, trying to settle my head.

I close my eyes, and I'm brought to a different view.

It had felt like a star was dying in slow motion right in front of me, so devastatingly transcendent and epic. The breaths of heat against my face seemed like they had gone to such great lengths just to hold my face and blow through my hair; the blurred blazing ball of brilliant light had looked like it was sinking into its own hazy reflection; fading into the water where it would sleep at the bottom until the sky called for it once more.

It had felt like being in outer space except it wasn't all dark and cold like in those pictures hanging in the various science rooms at Forks High. This universe, this tiny island of a world I was sitting inside of with him; it didn't feel so lonely and remote like all the distant planets hanging separately from one another in desolation, never knowing the oneness I felt with this man and the glittering sea.

I had felt so connected to everything: the cries of exotic birds flying over us, some circling us like beckoning out of reach halos, the gritty grains of the sand rubbing against my bare feet that had felt like they'd always be part of my skin, and the salt of the ocean seeping into my pores. I could taste it on my tongue. I felt the warmth of the wind gentling kissing my skin, a teasing reminiscence of how my lover's lips felt on me.

The crystalline water never stopped moving, always rushing back and forth; obeying the commands of the tide but sometimes breaking away into its own languid rhythm, taking its own time before swirling indulgently around the other swimmers.

It had all felt so familiar and normal but at the same time, so breathtaking and extraordinary. I was so content sitting there watching this scene painted by nature's own hand, an exhibit of all its beauteous capabilities.

But at the same time I felt this tugging in the depths of my chest, like the imprint of something heavy; the worry that I wouldn't be able to just leave everything here; that I wouldn't be content with just taking a picture of it with my eyes and my heart.

My panic caused the most peculiar discomfort inside of me like my heart had just swallowed the whole ocean; it felt heavy and leaden, desperate and drowning. The infinite ocean had been taken hostage by my heart, unprepared to let it go.

My heart wanted to swallow the sea, so that I would never lose it.

I never wanted to lose this feeling.

The barren ocean retaliated against my thievery, taking all the water I'd stolen in the form of my tears.

It began to possess them, holding them from me.

And I wanted them back because I wanted him to see how much my heart was ripping with the effort to hold onto him, onto us. And now the ocean had stolen the evidence of my afflictive struggle to keep him with me, and he would never know.

I couldn't cry or speak, kiss or beg. Anything to make him see that I wanted to stay with him forever in this moment and forget all other worlds but the sacred one I'd found with him.

I sat helplessly as my tears washed into the water, my eyes losing the sparkling drops as they filled the sea with my emptiness and sorrow.

The fight to keep the proof of my feelings was lost, and I could only accept it.

I turned to him, being slightly disappointed that I couldn't see his face very well in the quickly escaping light of the burned-out sun. I don't remember talking, but I had made an excuse- I don't remember what it was.

But he hadn't let me go this time.

His arms suddenly came down on me; my heart committing to memory the warmth of my lover's embrace grounding me to this private heaven from which I wished to steal myself from. He held me to the warm, wet sand as I slowly burned away from him; just as the sun had blazed its way from us into the unknown.

Except the sun was a constant. There was a promise in its presence unlike mine, where he never knew just when he'd see me again.

And suddenly regret kicked in as I left him there clutching hopelessly at the remnants of where I was supposed to stay alongside him until the end of time. Guilt like I'd never known before wedged itself into my being, living there out of spite and obligation.

How could I have left him?

I could no longer feel him, the ocean air, the sand, or anything and suddenly I was filled with regret and shame, wanting to grasp at anything that could tie me to that beautiful place.

Maybe it was good that I had woken up when I did.

I can even feel myself losing all the air in my lungs. My stomach felt like it held an icy block of tension just remembering that distorted dream of my memories.

Fuck, why can't I just remember the sex like normal people?

Or maybe I'm too old for sex dreams.

God, how old had he _been_?

I huff angrily. Well; I can just add that to the list of things I hadn't asked him.

The dozy khaki-shorts-wearing dragon seated to the left of me snarls once more in his sleep. I half expect him to start belching fire.

_Alright_. _Alright. _

I blow a sigh, filled with mourning for my lost sleep, and look to my bag. I grab my Kindle, but I can't seem to stop on a selection. It's come to my sharp notice that all my damn books are steamy romance novels; title upon title of erotica or soft core porn on every page.

Definitely a product of me living vicariously through generic heroines.

I look at the last title, _Sex on the Beach_. The last thing I need to read about is some desperate chick rolling around on the beach with a younger guy … wait a minute.

I completely stop myself from dwelling on that.

Hmmm, haven't read fanfiction in awhile. Maybe there's something on there …

* * *

My eyes tiredly follow a menagerie of luggage, watching for one beat-up blue bag on the large black carousel.

To be honest, I was kind of irked I had to check the damn thing in anyway. It's not much bigger than what most women all over the place wear strapped to their shoulders.

You know? Those big ones that make women look like they could just pack up and move across the country at any time?

I still think the only reason it got checked is because the stringy little airline worker had been caught by surprise when I handed it to him; his knobby knees had given out slightly which caused a nearby spying security guard to wheeze a poorly concealed laugh. Thus causing the emasculated little jerk to give my bag the boot … so to speak.

Still, that hadn't been as bad as the security guard who had gotten a bit handsy when he frisked me. I remember scowling deeply at him, daring the motherfucker to try something funny.

As if I wanted my embargo of intimacy to be broken by a big balding guard named Biff.

I smile sadly to myself remembering the bitterly tired woman storming through the airport, carrying much more on her shoulders than a beat-up Jansport. She'd looked at everyone: the smiling little families complete with little kids sporting Mickey Mouse ears, embracing lovers tearfully preparing for their short separations, and elated couples with hands interlaced going on their honeymoons. She'd gazed at them with unconcealed and admittedly undeserved envious enmity; the only way you can look at anybody when your heart's been broken.

My dozy daydreaming stops just in time to catch my bag before it goes once more around the wheel. I pull it from the procession, apologizing when I accidentally elbow some tweed-wearing fellow in the process.

_Some things never change, _I chuckle to myself as I hoist the bag over my other shoulder.

I pick up my pace as I wade through the crowd, a complete opposite of how I'd come here last week – shuffling miserably inside the airport, through the mass of commuters coming and going through the crowd, trying to make it to the exit in one piece. Alice almost had a stroke when she had picked me up to take me to the airport. I had reacted to her trademark theatrics with unwilling mirth as she clutched her heart, her eyes bounced at my three bags disbelievingly.

"That's all you're bringing?" she'd admonished.

I had merely shrugged on the steps of the apartment building. Honestly, how many wardrobe changes did you need for getting drunk off your ass and passing out in your hotel room, I'd thought as she stood there eyeing my bags malevolently like they were all that was wrong with the world.

Alice must have known I couldn't take her clownish criticism that day because she just gave me this long look accompanied with a pitying sigh and came to help me put my bags in the trunk of her little yellow Porsche. "You're gonna be staying there for two weeks." She'd reminded me as if I didn't know how long I'd be marooned in Mexico. This was obviously her last ditch effort at trying to make me run back upstairs for another dozen pieces of baggage.

But I'd just silently shut the trunk, the banging of the metal colliding, a harsh barrier between my best friend and I. She had stood there as she watched me get into the passenger's side, and I pretended not to see her anxious face as I slammed her door shut. I took my hair clips out, fanning the hair around my shoulders, and quickly stuck my earbuds in. Tt didn't matter what I was listening to. I just hadn't wanted to see or hear her disappointment in my luggage because even though she'd vehemently said otherwise, it still felt like the real disappointment was me.

God, I can't wait to make things right with her.

I can't wait to make peace with everything.

I stand on the sidewalk and confidently approach the impenetrable cotillion of yellow cabs, awkwardly trying to hail one. But it's not as easy as I thought. I end up awkwardly backing away to the safety of the curb after awhile until someone shouts in a thick Jamaican accent, "You lookin' for a cab, lady?"

I peer past the glare of the six o'clock evening sun and notice his bony finger crooked in my direction. I look at the big Washington cab sticker that clones him to the myriad of revving yellow taxis and nod and smile over to him. His grin takes up his whole face as he helps me put my bags in the trunk, and he jogs swiftly to the front as I climb into the backseat.

His personality is like an amplified version of my mood; sunny and eager to please his new charge.

Except that I'm just eager for change.

After murmuring my address, the fatigue of the past day and a half catches up with me. I lay back and watch the airport disappear from view as my Jamaican driver chats briskly about the change in weather.

* * *

My measly three bags suddenly weigh my body down like wet clothes on someone drowning as I plod up the steps to the apartment; my cheeks are flushed. Any chance of my arrival home being a surprise is shot down by my heaving breaths that can be heard a mile away. I idly realize that my hair looks like a squirrel's been nesting in there as I blow fuzzy strands out of my eyes and pat myself down for my keys.

And even though I look and feel like I've lived through a hurricane-and smell like it- I still have the energy to curve my lips in an anticipatory smile. But I guess that's how it is; after everything you've been through-tears, sweat or blood, you still have a smile saved up for the people it's worth going through it all for.

I wish I had remembered that sooner.

My heart is racing ahead of me to reacquaint itself with the one that beats beyond this door; it ignores my mind's fear of a less than enthusiastic reunion. After a moment's hesitation, I shrug. I didn't come all the way here just to sleep outside the door. I manage a pretty impressive juggling act (of course when nobody can see it) with my bags as I unlock the door and nudge it open with the toe of my shoe.

The first thing my eye catches are the overflowing swirls of wavy champagne locks sweeping fervently to and fro across the hardwood floor. She's propped up on that ugly russet 'apricot' couch she picked out in college, like Sleeping Beauty. Even though this princess is no different from her storybook soft and fair-flower like delicateness, she's wide awake, tunneling earnestly through a pint of Ben and Jerry's that's balanced on her protruding stomach like the way to China is nestled inside the carton.

Her features are screwed up in familiar deep aggravation, and I'm stricken by how it's the loveliest fuckin' thing I've seen in such a long time. I guess there's no competition for the comfort of a familiar face.

I drop everything at the front door, kick off my shoes and charge at her. The sound of my feet slapping the hardwood floors momentarily startles her sending her busy, baby-blue eyes flying open in my direction. A faint gasp sounds from her before she chucks the spoon to the floor with a clatter, screaming endlessly until my arms encircle her shoulders.

"You're home early!" she squeals happily. I'm surprised she can talk through her smile. I'm hoping she's too excited by my presence to further question my early arrival.

I bend down to hug her and laugh a little at her weak attempts to wrap her arms around me before she gives up with a growl. I breathe her in for a minute holding onto her, taking advantage of her inability to move from her position on the couch. I sigh into her formerly oversized NY Giants shirt before squeezing her shoulders gingerly, feeling a bit guilty for momentarily forgetting to be easy with her. I let her go and stand up when I start to feel the ache in my own position.

She shimmies her butt in the groove of her seat, trying to sit up. "Oh, I missed you." Her voice is strained and her eyes a little glassy but I'll just take that as strain from the effort to move. "How are you doing? Are you alright? Did you have any fun?" Her face is angled up, doing all the work her body can't as she rapidly shoots questions at me, and she must realize how silly she looks because she rolls her eyes at herself and sighs. "Here, move me back up." She shoots her arms straight in the air expectantly, wiggling her fingers and making me giggle some more.

After some grunting from a pregnant lady and a lady who needs to work out more, Rosalie is seated neatly in the middle of the couch enwrapped in a patchy turquoise afghan she'd woven some months ago, bouncing on the cushion with questions blazing in her bright eyes. I'm so glad she's been practicing her knitting more since then. "Now how the hell have you _been_?" she asks, tugging my hands into her lap, between her own. "Besides stinky," she gasps exaggeratedly away from me, scooting over a bit.

"I know, I know." I pull my shirt away from myself, "I'm a bit ripe," I admit begrudgingly.

"As long as you're self aware," she shrugs.

We catch each other's eye and start sniggering again.

"Whatever, just lemme hop in the shower and we'll catch up." She nods in my direction, squirming and cursing, hunting for her impulsively thrown spoon.

* * *

"Don't you want to sleep?"

"Not tired," I lie as I rummage through the laundry bin, sighing in relief that I don't see a mountain of dirty clothes. At least she has had clean underwear for awhile.

"Bella." Her voice warns like she's gonna get someone to mail me back to Mexico. She's peering at me from her seat on the couch, pointing an orange dusted finger at me, "Remember what we all said."

I huff at the fact that everyone was still going to treat me with kid gloves. I readjust the tie on my robe as I stand back up from pilfering through our dryer. I know she hates to fold clothes. "Relax. I'm just making sure you were alright while I was gone." My concern for my roommate seems pretty reasonable to me. It just looks a little crazy since I'm in my old bathrobe and my hair is dripping all over the floor because I can never make the towel twist all fancy around my hair without it unraveling and me cursing.

"I was fine. I _am_ fine. Everybody's fine." She counts off on her fingers, the little smartass. "Sit down!" she commands.

I pick up a towel from the bathroom on the way to the couch, drying my freshly cleaned hair as I walk. "Alice-" I had wanted to ask how she was, but I guess Rosalie still thought I was going to give her the third degree.

"Yeah, they check up on me. They make sure the lights haven't been shut off." Thank God someone was. Rose crunched numbers for Alice's business, and she kept shit in line but when it came to our finances … she was the most forgetful accountant on the planet. I guess I can't expect her to have it all together since the pregnancy.

It kind of reminds me of how Renée wouldn't know to pay the heat bill until we were all freezing our nips off in December.

"Alice and Jasper came over every weekend. Alice drank, I ate and Jasper watched. They'd crash till morning and I would meet them at work whenever I had the energy to remove my ass from its snug home on our couch. They called almost every day in between that." The end of her report is punctuated by the prompt crunch of a cheeto.

How and when did she even get up for those?

And just how much junk has she been eating?

I excuse myself quickly to get a glass of water. I quickly move to the pantry, praying I don't find seven cans of Nesquik chocolate milk mix like last time; she's been horrible the past month. She hoards Yoo-hoo like a '20s bootlegger, and I had no idea how crafty she could be until I accidentally stumbled upon a couple of Twinkies taped to the bottom of the coupon drawer.

She catches me standing in front of an open cabinet, empty prop glass in hand. "It's highly unnecessary to take inventory. Just to summarize: I had just about every salty, cheesy, frosted, and/or chocolaty-coated whatever and about half of that stuff was dipped in Nutella. I'm not sorry." She rants defensively, her little arms crossed tightly over her chest. I almost expected her to stick her tongue out at me but was very surprised she didn't flip me the bird. It's her trademark.

"C'mon, sit back down and tell me about your trip." she whines. I can't tell if she's just trying to cover up some deep hidden caramel secret in there or if she wants to hear about the trip. It's most likely a little bit of both since I've come back earlier than expected.

I walk slowly behind her waddling form and grab a stack of envelopes "Fine, but I'm checking the mail."

"Sh-_oot._ I'd meant to check that." She eyes the small stack worriedly.

I wave her off, feeling more than a little nervous going through the mail. Simultaneously hoping and dreading that I'll find something marked Jenks or Denali in here. I roll back the sleeves of my robe and try to get comfortable, pulling my legs onto the couch and snuggling into Rose.

"So tell me." I was never good at talking about myself, but now it's much worse because I feel like I'm hiding something. Well, I am hiding something. There's a large part of me that wants to launch into some exaggerated story of my conquering a gorgeous faux waiter down on the beach, but I know that what happened to me isn't the kind of story that you relay to your girls during a mixer, eager to get the lousy lay you had off your chest. This was something more than I could put into words.

Hell, my dreams could barely make sense of how I feel.

I couldn't share the overwhelming, unidentified feelings in my heart, not with anyone.

"Not much to tell really. Sun, sand, surf." I laugh lamely, ignoring the pang inside me that mocks the triviality of that answer.

"Martinis?" Her small chuckle is like a wave on her body, nudging my head slightly. I smile bigger. She knows me so well.

"I like 'em dirty. You know me." I snort back. She sits quietly as I scan the cable bill. I hope there's enough time to pay it.

I haven't seen _The Voice_ in forever.

"Well, did it help at all?" Her voice is like a warm hand reaching into me, seeking reassurance that her plan had worked. That my heart had mended by taking a change of pace and clearing my mind.

It hadn't worked the way she had expected, but it had worked nonetheless.

My answer comes out in sync with my breathing, reflecting my soul's new clarity, "Yeah."

She murmurs 'good' and rubs my arm, taking my word for it.

Rosalie, Alice and I have all been tight since college but lately Rosalie and I have bonded together tighter than ever before. Both darning ripped hearts and pulling ourselves out from under the fallout, courtesy of the lowlifes who shredded them. We kind of have this new solemn understanding. Not like a pity party but more of a two-girl support group; when one of us wades too deep in the choppy waters of our sorrow, the other will throw out a life jacket. I nearly drowned last month and she saw that. She's the one that suggested I be completely removed from Forks for awhile. She'd convinced me that there was nothing left to do but walk away for awhile.

Who could have foreseen how effective that idea would be? And all this time we'd been thinking Alice had the latent gift of precognition.

We were silent for a time with only the sounds of our separate activities filling the room; her with her crunching, and the tearing and flapping of each envelope as I'd rip it open, classify it as bill or junk, then toss it to the side.

"Bella."

"Huh?" I hum absentmindedly as I toss away coupons for some Chinese food place that's too far from here. Her voice doesn't startle me; I'm used to the newfound companionable silence I've come to associate with my formerly rowdy best friend.

"The lease is almost up," she says casually.

"Oh. Okay, I'll sign the papers tomorrow," I reply back, still looking for papers from my divorce lawyer, but knowing I'm going to come up empty.

"Okay, but what if we didn't?" She inquires vaguely.

"Homelessness isn't really our style … well, it's not mine anyway," I joke, waiting on her to spit it out.

"No, I'm thinking that maybe we don't renew the lease, Bella." She turns, burning the top of my head with her steely blue gaze. I put the finished envelopes down beside me and turn into her.

"I'm sorry, is there a mansion hidden in that belly of yours?" As soon as I reference the ever-growing bump on my friend's belly, she begins to rub it instinctively. "Because that's the only way I'd consider whatever the hell it is you're trying to sell me." I laugh at the scowl she sends to me.

"How about if you considered moving to Seattle?" She asks as if she thinks we should consider looking at the Chinese food flyer that I'm balling up.

"Huh?"

"Seattle."

"Seattle?" My face is flaxen, devoid of expression. I'm sure I look pretty damn stupid but I can't be hearing this, it's highly impractical.

"Yes." She nods definitively like I can see the screwy scheme brewing in her brain.

"What's in Seattle?" I ask solicitously.

"What's in Forks?" Her question is a swift rebuttal that causes me to gawk at her.

After a second of being stymied, I remind her. "Our whole lives?" But it feels more like I'm reminding myself, a small part of me admits silently.

Having enough of the preamble, she straightens up as much as she can, no doubt trying to appear as imposing as possible before going in for the kill. "C'mon Bella, you can't possibly wanna stick around here!"

Her choice of description for our lives ruffles me a bit. "I'm not sticking, this isn't sticking!" I defend.

After years of knowing me, she must know when Stubborn Swan has arrived, so she counteracts with extreme empathy … better known as the guilt trip. "Bella, don't you want a fresh start? For you? For Lily?" She implores, her voice and eyes emoting such profound sadness that I almost fall for it.

Until I catch something.

This conversation just keeps getting stranger. I burst out, "Who the fuck is Lily?"

"Your niece," she explains like I'm special. "And quit swearing," she adds, rubbing her stomach protectively and eyeing me reproachfully. Hmmm, well that mystery's solved.

I had _thought_ the house had lacked a couple of good 'shits' and a 'goddamn'.

"You don't know it's a girl!" This was common knowledge. After the very first sonogram, the coos and tears of a new mother and two aunts were replaced with a most heated exchange. Alice had bet that she could guess the sex of the baby and a somewhat crankier Rose said that she couldn't and to 'keep her nose out of my uterus' so now because Rose just_ had_ to doubt Ali's 'psychic hotline' sensibilities, we have to scramble to pick out a name as soon as the baby gets here.

And _I'm_ the stubborn one.

"Fine, Anderson if it's a boy." I'm just about to notify her of the sheer crappiness of that name before she catches my look of revocation, _"The point,_"she stresseswith an annoyed eye roll before continuing_, _"I'm trying to make is that we could have a better life in Seattle. We owe it to ourselves to make a clean break from all this sh-_tuff_."

I can't even deny her logic, not while I'm looking in her eyes and agreeing with the determined gleam I see there. "Do you even have a plan?" I ask tiredly. Rose and her 'plans'.

"Well, _no_," she wheedles in the face of my obvious scrutiny. "But I _know_ that this is the right move for us. For some reason I feel like this is what we need right now like all of our answers are just waiting right there for us." Maybe she's been sipping what Alice has been sipping for 15 years.

But for some reason what she says makes sense. In the face of all the impracticalities of it, she really does make sense. "Can I think about it?" I ask genuinely.

She collapses back into the couch, grumbling under her breath crossly. "Oh, that's most definitely a 'No', then." I manage to make out through all the grunting.

I pretend to be offended, "It's not a 'No'. It's a 'Can I think about it?'."

She surprises me by softening the fighting edge in her face and attitude. "Fine."

But I know she won't go down that easily. "And don't you bully me for the rest of the week; the lease isn't up til-"

"Saturday," she inserts helpfully.

"Okay, that's a full week away. I will tell you well before then." I compromise, a silent 'shake on it' in my voice.

"Fine," she agrees with less sulking.

It's quiet again. I'm collecting balled up coupons and trash, and organizing bills when she speaks again.

"With all that being said," she begins thoughtfully. "I think the first step to our new life should be getting ice cream. ... As in you getting ice cream. As in right now."

I smile at the dopey diplomatic look on her face. "You sure the most important thing isn't maybe finding another apartment?"

"Nope, definitely ice cream." She nods, laying her head back and rubbing her belly, silently saying 'I have spoken'.

Well, the sun's out, and we are in need of a good healthy dinner; well I know she is.

I jump up, stretching slightly, and go to hunt for my yoga pants.

* * *

**A/N:**

**So Bella thinks she's escaped Mexico with a feel good vibe; like a cheesy heroine in one of her books.**

**She's gonna be in for a surprise ;)**

**I'd love to hear your thoughts on this. **

**Thanks for reading :)**


	4. Forbidden Fruit Juice

**A/N:**

**I have some stuffs to say at the bottom, it might interest you. **

**For now, I'd love to thank DeanWinchester-myheart and Twilightmom505 from Project Team Beta. You guys are amazing, thanks for all the help. **

**And I kinda dig you guys' names. **

**Hope you guys enjoy this.**

**SM owns. **

* * *

The clouds are amassed, mingling and clustering together like conspirators in my windshield; beams of golden light valiantly fight through this typical gathering of moody March weather, violently bright where it touches the streets ahead. I'm always very wary in spring, how unassumingly mild it can be one day and how bitterly cold it can become the next. Add in the umbrella destroying winds that kick up unexpectedly and the odd torrents of rain you get in the middle of the day or night, and I'm constantly on the lookout for what to wear just to protect myself from catching pneumonia.

I had not taken for granted the gracious sunshine of the early afternoon that had followed me from the airport. Its tender heat hadn't just stopped at warming my skin and hair, it had thawed something inside of me as well; the fulgent light through the trees seemed to glow on the somewhat wet streets of the parking lot, making them look like they had been paved in gold while I'd been away. When the cab had pulled in, I found myself reveling in the rarity of Forks sunlight even though I had just traveled from a place where the sun's face constantly blends with sandy winds and shimmering water.

Before I left for Cabo, the skies had literally been the grey remainder of a mercilessly miserable winter; the backdrop for the demise of my marriage and the innocence of first love that froze with the season. My life had been backlit with such harsh unyielding grey that I sometimes had trouble telling the difference between the constantly blank skies and the drab concrete covered in layers of ashen ice and snow.

When I left my husband late last December, I remember being mad at the world, but the sky had unknowingly received the brunt of my absurd anger. I had looked at it as a cruel analogy for the course of my life; somber, oppressive and unreadable, never allowing me one signal of when I'd be pelted with icy rain or burdened by a cascade of snow. Just an achromatic ongoing cloud of uncertainty that had replaced my once endless blue skies of possibility.

That winter, everything around me looked rotted and ugly, everything around me felt cold and dead. The blooms of spring, the flowers of summer and the rainbow leaves of fall; the vivid accents of a life lived full of splendor and ignorant bliss had swiftly died around me, leaving me benumbed and alone in a barren wasteland.

It had all come so quickly that I had barely had time to mourn the seasons. The seasons of my past; seasons of love and memories that were all gone where I could not reach them, gone where future seasons had felt lost to me as well. I had felt doomed to spend the rest of my life haunted by the spoiled, icy soil of my life where nothing beautiful or special would ever grow again.

But now— now I see where the flowers_ can_ bloom, hidden in tiny buds, buried deep within the ground. Not lost, just forgotten; biding their time until the sun could find them and afford them the chance to grow and flourish, spreading lavishly throughout spring.

I see the blossoms erupting from their prisons in the wick of the formerly skeletal trees, its beauty born from the dead. Their natural struggle to return to life even from their blackest death, has given me infinite hope.

Mostly, I see promise; natural and all encompassing promise. Just as winter can surely deaden the beauty of the world, shrouding it in frost and frigidity, the spring will _always_ return to make things new; fresh and alive, strong and ready to break from its banishment from the world.

So even when the sunlight becomes a little murky; when the azure sky is pushed from view by threatening storm clouds, I know there will always be a ray of light punching through the veil of hidden heavens, battling the grey.

It's only ever between these two seasons: winter and spring, that you can see the arcane war raging in the very air around you. You can feel the air pushing back and forth, the temperatures rising high and falling low, the stir of an errant honeybee hinting at the nearby swarm, forest animals peeking out from under their burrowed homes, waiting on the victor as spring bravely tries to overthrow the tyranny of winter's bondage. But after a few months of shaky weather forecasts, and a few bad hair days spring always returns to earth, the champion.

Even as my window is hangs open, allowing a cool balmy breeze to flow through my Chevy, I can smell the oncoming rain; feel the looming storm that threatens to wash away the fragile watercolor texture of this peaceful preview of a rich spring.

Feeling especially maternal, Rosalie had wrapped me in my rubbery raincoat, but my optimism for the sun to hold onto the day long enough for me to race through the store for groceries had me slinging the thing rebelliously into the front seat.

_It's there if I need it_, I'd reasoned as I'd started up "The Beast".

Ah, "The Beast": a rusty familiar constancy from my past.

Recently, I have found myself falling back into a world I had once been so accustomed to, and I had expected to feel especially hesitant in treading water beneath all the bridges that I had once crossed over and left behind without a single look; but everyday I'm pleasantly surprised with how very wrong I had been.

The easy adaptation back into my old life always makes me wonder if I was ever really meant for my new one.

I remember when Charlie bought this brick red beast of a truck for me, so long ago it seems. We didn't always have a lot of money, which meshed with our low maintenance lifestyles, but when my father learned his only child — his little girl was going to be riding around on subways, sometimes at night when she went away to college, he commandeered the situation, classifying it in his mind as serious as a military mission.

The man tirelessly searched for a safe, affordable vehicle that I could take with me to Seattle; something that could sustain time and my klutzoid history. Secretly, he'd marked the classifieds of the _Forks Review_ looking for the perfect solution to sleepless nights filled with thoughts of me being taken hostage by a 'tweaked out freak' on the train.

He said it, not me.

Then, one day, the answer had dangled in his eyes like ripe fruit from the vine. A bulletin of an upcoming police auction was stapled clumsily on overlapping bright fuchsia and dandelion fliers of lost puppies and bikes; it was like the gods themselves had directly posted the answer to his increasingly worried dad prayers on that crummy little cork board.

Following the advice of presumed divine intervention, he had attended the auction hoping that he could find me a decent car, or at the very least a moped; anything to keep me from public transportation in the big city.

The summer before I went away to college, I was awakened very early in the morning by the rumble of an engine chugging its way into our driveway. I'd raced down to the front door, hoping to get a peek as to who would come to our house so early and in that _thing_, when I saw a familiar mustached man jump from the driver's side.

In my Scooby pajamas, I'd harassed my father with a million questions, examining the oddity in our driveway. As I inspected the perplexing hunk of junk, my father did something a man of his systematic and decidedly un-spontaneous nature didn't normally do. He surprised me by hugging me and tossing the keys in my hand before he swaggered into the house. He poured himself a big steaming cup of coffee in the Best Dad Ever mug I'd made for him in second grade art class, and sat waiting for his eggs and bacon.

The rest of the story is quite annotated because when I politely asked him "what the_ hell_?" he'd only answered me through blushes, stammers and awkward pauses. After some admittedly Charlie Swan inspired cross-examining on my end, he'd admitted to getting the truck from the police auction but wouldn't tell me who had owned it previously. His resolute refusal to disclose the past owner had typically piqued my trademark curiosity and the three bullet holes I later found in the back of the truck, that someone had sloppily tried to paint over, had automatically stimulated my mind with theories of gang initiations and drug busts.

In the end, I recognized that the mystery of my dad's mind and the history of my truck would remain under lock and key. And honestly, I'm much more satisfied in the reliability of my taciturn father and my frequently underestimated car. If it weren't for both, this phase of my life would have been made undoubtedly difficult. It's nice to know there were still some things I could count on.

At any rate, I just try not to imagine any Columbian drug lords cruising in this thing.

* * *

"I knew I should have made a list," I grumble after my third tour through the canned goods aisle.

I always do this; I can never just go into a store, pick out what I need and get the fuck out.

Well, it hadn't always been like that.

Back before I got married, well before that even, I was used to making all the domestic choices.

As far back as I can remember, I was the one picking up groceries for Charlie and me; we were a team. He would bring home the bacon, and I would exchange it for something healthier before making it. Living with Charlie had practically been like living with a clone; we liked the same things, the same way, every single day.

It was probably because it was my one area of control in an overscheduled life; I may have had to deliberate with my father or friends on some stuff, but overall I was in control of my own household.

But soon, the single life disappears and you're not shopping, cooking and cleaning for just yourself anymore. Grocery stores suddenly become filled with proverbial landmines of uncertainty over the craziest things; making a quick trip for dinner becomes a longer chore. You find yourself buying less taco kits because he hates Mexican food. You find yourself not buying lemon pledge because it makes him sneeze, even though you know it cleans a room out like a lemony A-bomb. The fabric softener you used to use is too girly for him. The sheets you like are too itchy on him. Your favorite meals get replaced by his.

Young and inexperienced, I became this little Betty Crocker android; eager to please and prove I could be the married working girl who could satisfy her husband.

I was damn well willing to sacrifice about anything to do it.

I never even noticed how single Bella got washed out in the blending of married life. I couldn't see where the line of consideration for your spouse turned into expectancy, where I'd have to meet each wish or whim dutifully or face disappointment.

But I had thought that was what marriage was, turning me into "we". No more lonely suffering through making the harder decisions, we were a team.

But really I just ended up being the pretty painted mascot for _his_ team.

In the end, being such a pushover and easily manipulated by smooth talk and empty promises; I ended up sacrificing my individuality, and my pride a little bit later, to the point where I couldn't tell if Bella Swan had ever even existed and wasn't just created in the form of Isabella Denali.

I used to tell myself that maybe if we had been more likeminded things could have been easier. He'd be more attuned to me, so thinking about my interests wouldn't have been so secondary.

Excuses can only hold for so long; he didn't want to make things easier, for me anyway.

I roll my eyes at my own inner monologue as I stroll aimlessly past the chip aisle not even really seeing the shelves.

It's stupid, I know; it's just _shopping_ for crying out loud,

But I'm _still_ not used to the little things.

I still check to see if the toilet seat's down before I use it.

I still haven't gotten used to cooking for one; Rose never minds, she loves the leftovers.

I still feel strange not having to remember to record _Lost _even though he never remembered, not fucking once, to record Grey's Anatomy for me.

Out of all those differences, the hardest change is sleeping in the middle of the bed. I've heard so many funny stories of women immediately assuming the gap of the no good men they had booted out of their beds, deeming them unworthy to take up their blankets and space.

I still sleep on one side of the bed; the same side I used to sleep on when I would lie next to my husband.

Maybe I still do it because I'm always wishing for someone to be on the other side when I turn over in the morning.

I guess under some extenuating circumstances that are still out of my goddamn control, I haven't started popping champagne and throwing streamers in self congratulation.

It's still all too soon for my heart to accept the single status my mind has.

But rest assured, someday it will.

I turn another corner and I almost tear my hair out.

Chef-Boyar-fucking Dee.

I'm in the damn canned food aisle again.

Oh well, I might as well make use of that soup sale. I blow my hair back, ridiculing myself for my sloppy dress of yoga pants, faded Led Zepplin shirt, and messy bun. But really, who could I possibly see in here?

Plus, the crappy fluorescent lights in this joint are just as good as the flashing lights of a nightclub when you're trying to disguise how fugly you look at the time.

But just in case I do get caught looking like a dirty hippie, maybe I should save the musings of my fucked up marriage for later. I check my little plastic wristwatch and realize my sad sack soliloquies have kept me off track for an hour. It's nearly 7 in the evening and if I don't hurry up with some food other than a dozen cans of Progresso, Rosalie might cut me…or eat me.

* * *

My intended dash through the store has turned into a marathon of hasty turns, second thoughts and deliberations as I stroll through the aisles of the local Thriftway, but I think I'm making great headway. My cart's half full of the spoils from diligent bargain hunting…okay and a little impulse shopping. But those little peanut butter thingies looked damn good.

After picking up the necessities: milk, eggs, butter, and such, I was able to remember the reason for my pilgrimage this evening, and I made my way down through every aisle; my shopping style a variation of carefully choosing things by brand, price and randomly throwing crap in the cart.

After the preliminary shopping, I went for the main event in the freezer aisle: ice cream.

Now Rosalie was hardly an aficionado for ice cream, something I found out one day when she peeled off the lid of a fresh pint I'd brought her and dazedly stating that she didn't care what the fucking flavor was as long as it was nice and creamy in her mouth. At which point the slang of my homeroom finally registered in with my decidedly mature nature, and I channeled it by involuntarily saying 'That's what she said' causing her to nearly choke on a mouthful of fudge ripple.

But I digress; I'm always the one to pick out some new flavor for her, which would earn me my reward of my one bite Rose allows me to have. Which is quite generous of her at this stage in her addiction.

After a more careful deliberation than that of most state caucuses, I grabbed a little pint of Half Baked, hoping she was in the mood for a classic before moving to the very last section of the store.

My nose prickles at the citrusy fusion of fruits in the bin of oranges and grapefruits as I pass them. My bare arms shiver at the cool air creeping from the walls of vegetables and from where I'm standing, I can even detect the floral scents emanating from the partition of flowers nearby.

The earthy scents and bright lights here trigger a melancholy response from tropical memories that I struggle to ignore.

I don't want to fall into another loop of delay.

Once I had gotten my shit together, somewhere along the cracker aisle, I was able to comprise a mental food list to get us through the next few days. I had based it around the food pyramid I saw printed on the plastic of a loaf of bread. From there, I was able to pick up the stuff I needed to make some chicken enchiladas; which is really funny considering I've had more Mexican food in the past week than I've had in my entire life.

I should be sick of the stuff.

Maybe I'm just not ready to let go yet.

I sigh looking at the colorful array of chili peppers, shrieking a little when the little sprinklers choose that time to spritz my hand when I reach for a green one.

I bag the peppers and tie them up, perusing the bins of produce as I walk back to my cart, parked by the bananas. I think I've done pretty damn well and I should be cruising through the checkout line in the next ten minutes.

I smile proudly at the bag of Granny Smiths before I pitch them in the cart.

There's still just one thing I have to get.

* * *

I think the person who said "the best things in life are free" was probably some tall asshole. Obviously the best things in life are out of reach, for people who are vertically challenged anyway. I stare balefully at the top shelf where they've moved my favorite juice.

If I'm being honest, I'd gladly sub out water for this stuff if I knew I wouldn't succumb to dehydration.

Oh well, height's a familiar foe; I know just the trick.

Just gotta limber up first.

_Ahhhh_ there we go.

I really gotta start working out, I groan as I hear the snapping of sleeping bones and joints after I stretch before I hike my leg up to the second shelf. I really hope nobody sees me Spidermanning this shelf, not that it's really in me to care; I just don't want to get distracted and take down this whole display of Ocean Spray when I surely come crashing down.

Plus, these pants are stretching over my ass like 80s hair band spandex.

I manage to get all four limbs attached to the metal shelves, but I'm scared to make any false moves, which could result in me lying spread eagle on this floor covered in juice. I giggle at the exaggerated visual of my own clumsiness, but I nearly lose my footing as thunder sounds throughout the store, the lights flickering ominously.

God this town is so underfunded.

And shit, I just _had_ to be all glass half full about the weather; now I'm gonna have to run through the rain without a coat when I get outside.

I'd say pneumonia is pretty much guaranteed at this point.

Maybe I can beat the storm if I'm quick enough.

I muster up the courage to continue my mock rock climbing, moving up one more shelf, feeling the strain in my back and shoulders as I attempt the most physical thing I've done since gym in high school.

Almost there, I pant overlooking the prune juice.

I reach up higher, hoping I won't have to climb another level. My outstretched fingers graze the ridged top of one bottle, but my eagerness pushes the bottle back some.

Fuck.

"Mrs. Denali?"

Double Fuck.

Yes, because I need further reminders of _that_ train wreck while I'm trying to scale this damn shelf.

"Mrs. Denali?" she exclaims incredulously. "What on _Earth_ are you doing up there?" Her southern lilt is sprinkled with muffled laughter.

Oh! I know that laugh; it's the same laugh that carried through the night of the Christmas party when we'd all had too much cheap wine. The faculty and PTA pretty much adopted the old Vegas saying after someone leaked pictures of Principal Varner playing strip twister.

And that was a pretty life altering event seeing as how I'd known Varner since he was my teacher.

Let's just say the years had _not _been kind to him.

"Come down from there, you'll hurt yourself and my husband'll have to make a house call!" she giggles, I can just imagine that sweet, warm smile on her face.

I can't focus on her mirth at my expense just now, not when I'm so close to the gold. "This is between me and the Cran-Grape, Mrs. Cullen." I assure her confidently, while I make another swipe for the bottle. I huff through the strain of keeping my body steady on this thing. "I'll be down in a second." Hopefully not face or ass first.

I hear her tsk fretfully at me from below as I straighten my brow stubbornly in concentration. "Well, maybe my son can get it for you," she offers. "And I told you to call me Esme!" She adds like it truly offends her that I don't. "But you probably don't remember that." Her amusement almost muffles her words but I hear them loud and clear.

I wobble slightly as I turn quickly at her light accusation. "Of course I remember your name!" I insist while hanging onto the shelf with a hawk clawed grip.

She snorts at my determined stare, though her eyes don't waver from worrying over my precarious position four feet from the sparkling linoleum. "Yeah, after you called me Elizabeth for a year." She shakes her head amusedly, at me or my infamously poor memory for names, I'm not sure. "I bet you can't even remember my poor son's name, and you were his favorite teacher."

Silence incriminates me as I keep pawing at the teasing little bottles. "Uh Mike? Stan? Eric?" I call out quickly.

Wait, something is clicking.

It was definitely an E name.

"My word, you can quote Emily Dickenson in under 10 seconds, but when it comes to names…" Again, her tongue clicks in mock disapproval.

Desperate to prove her rightful notions wrong, my mind churns frantically for a correct name. "Emmett!" I shout exultantly, that has to be right!

Her Cheshire smile is my answer, "Oh no, that's my nephew." I don't know how she can sweeten smugness but she does it. Suddenly, her eyes alight with new focus as her perfectly coiffed caramel hair bounces in the direction her head turns in. "Oh my- Here he is! Edward!" Her face lights up like dawn's light, but the stormiest gloom rages inside of me.

Edward?

The shock is all I need to wobble slightly agaisnt the shelf, grabbing for anything in a pointless attempt to keep from falling. I land on my ass clutching my cran-grapey prize, but somehow I don't fell like I've won.

In times of great stress, my mind tends to go left field.

Call it a defense mechanism if you will.

I don't try to substitute something unpleasant for something far more fanciful; I'm not that deluded. But I do distract myself a little enough to give myself a poker face; so while I cower in my mind, I don't have time to give away obvious signs of panic or guilt and in this case horror.

As I turn to face the source of the sparkle in Esme's eyes, I'm reminded of a book I once read in college.

It was about a young handsome English boy and how he found the secret to eternal life. He had banished the truth of his decaying youth into a painting. In exchange for his soul, he remained unfailingly and unnaturally stunning; though he'd never forgotten the years and youth stolen from the Devil himself.

Random, I know.

But the very idea of acknowledging the ugliness underlying his seemingly idealistic beauty was so torturous, so he learned to lie to himself for decades.

And when he was finally forced to look upon the truth, his true self in the painting, he was destroyed.

That's kind of how I feel right now.

Destroyed.

The truth of my beautiful dream is looking quite ugly right now.

The watercolor fantasy I'd painted of paradise with a beautiful young man on the beach has a new texture now.

He destroyed my painting.

It's like one of those optical illusions: if I keep my eyes on his I see the sinfully sexy man on the beach who claimed my heart and body several times in just one night. The one who'd lifted me from the pain of my deadening heart and hopelessness. The one who made me determined to see the good in life once more.

He had been my inspiration.

The ray of sun that brightened my once dark future.

But as I look deeper into his eyes, I see the guilt and shame there; I see the one who lied to me and _tricked_ me.

_Another_ letdown.

His eyes never waver from mine; his jaw is completely set and clenched as he looks at me. He stands tall, his back straight and his chest strong. The veil that he'd been hiding behind in Mexico has completely dropped and he doesn't show any of the fear that I have.

How can he be so calm?

It's like he's resolved or something.

Could he have known I would find out?

I can't bear to look into his eyes; I need to focus on something else. Anything else.

A bag of marshmallows hangs in his grasp, in certain danger of being squished by his twitching hand.

God, what those hands did to me in a hazy heated night in Mexico.

Maybe he's going to make sundaes with his mom.

Or S'mores.

His _mother._

He shops and helps his mother.

Who's on the PTA.

Who runs the goddamned canned food drive.

I resist the urge to cradle my bloated head in my hand as my stomach roils with grim acceptance that not even the deepest denial can push way.

Oh God, I've banged someone's son.

Esme Cullen's son.

Mother of Edward Cullen

_Edward_ Cullen.

My former student and most current lover.

I fucked a _student_.

Tears burn the edges of my vision, but I can't tell what they're filled with; the fluorescent lights of the store sparkle oddly as I try to keep breathing.

Somewhere in the distance I can hear Esme; I can hear the excited smile in her voice as she stands proudly by her son, asking me, "Do you remember him now?"

* * *

**A/N:**

**Alright then, are we in shock? Or did you see that coming? **

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